“You should… change your clothes first,” Kane said, his voice thick and low, like he was fighting something primal.
I looked down. My soaked shirt clung to my skin like a second layer, see-through and shameless. My cheeks burned. Werewolves were hypersensitive to their mate’s scent—mine was probably driving him mad right now.
“It’ll dry soon,” I mumbled. “Better just get this done.”
Before he could argue, I covered his eyes with my palm. “No peeking!”
Kane didn’t fight me. He just let out a slow breath, eyelids fluttering shut under my touch.
After adjusting the water temperature—not too hot, not too cold, just enough to avoid triggering his werewolf glands; I gently rinsed the back of his head.
“The front’s off-limits for now,” I murmured. “The wound needs a few more days.”
He humm
